


One Reason

by seperis



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-02-06
Updated: 2001-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan's nightmares don't just come when he's asleep. Rogue fixes things. Angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Reason

**Author's Note:**

> This hit me at something around 2:30 in the morning (THANK YOU DIEBIN, I DIDN'T NEED SLEEP!) and I actually had a dream with pink elephants because of it, which is really unrelated to the subject at hand but I thought I'd share. That means it's destiny, you know. Sare, you are blessed, you beta and make me feel good about myself. I'm always a fan of that.

Some people said they did it for money, for power, or for themselves. For ideals or for survival or for faith. She'd distilled it down to one concept, one meaning, that she took as her own with the name she'd given herself.

They did it for love.

The kind that was branded into you so deeply you stopped trying to see it for what it was and called it anything else, because it seemed so cheap a reason, so pointless, so meaningless compared to other reasons, other words, that all came down to mean the same thing anyway. When you put one thing above yourself and your life, above your ethics and ideals, and once you did that, it stopped being anything but. Some people couldn't handle that.

She could.

* * *

 __

\--Night was when she felt him closest, almost as if she could reach out and touch wherever he was--curled up in bed beneath a cotton comforter smelling of detergent and perfume and the sweat of nightmares. She could imagine him inches away, guarding her sleep as he'd guarded her life.--

\--"Rogue, where're you going? It's late."--

\--"I'm sorry, Bobby."--

\--"Being a substitute isn't all it's cracked up to be."--

\--"Nothing's as good as a fantasy, sugar. Remember that next time I ask."--

* * *

Midnight in winter was when things happened and she didn't know why. She had a theory, but theories were like toilet paper, disposable after one use.

He woke her with a tap to her mind and she dressed without asking, because she already knew the answers.

She took the keys from the Professor's slim hand, picked up the credit cards and cash to stuff in her jacket pocket, took the paper from the edge of the desk, his neat print trailing the exact center of the page, four simple addresses with a number after each one. He asked her if she wanted this, if she could do this, if she wished to go alone.

He always asked, as if one day she'd say no. Maybe he hoped she would.

She answered yes to all three and left, booted heels slamming into the wood of the downstairs floor, out into the sharp wind of the coldest night in recorded New York history. The digital phone was tucked into her bag and so were spare clothes and spare cash. Got in the car and warmed it up, pulling out the paper to memorize the addresses, then warming her gloved hands between her legs until she was sure the car would run. Setting it in reverse, she backed out of the garage and jerked it into drive. Five miles outside of Westchester, she opened the window and dropped the phone on the side of the road.

He never wanted to know everything.

* * *

 __

\--"When did you become someone's lap dog, Rogue?"--

\--"Marie."--

\--"You never told me your name."--

\--"It doesn't have anything to do with you."--

* * *

They all called her Rogue, and she lit a cigarette with a shaking hand as she left New York fourteen minutes and fifty-two seconds behind her. Names were important things--Shakespeare could write a fucking play decrying the significance, but you defined your name after awhile, until the image that jumped into the head and heart on hearing had nothing to do with Webster's Dictionary and the alphabetized entries running like a trail of ants' feet down the page. Roses would stink if they weren't roses. It was that simple. She'd never been a big philosophy student, but she did have beliefs, and when she looked in the mirror, she still saw Marie looking out at her, Marie who knew more about names and definitions than Rogue ever could.

* * *

 __

\--"How bad is it?"--

\--"It is difficult, Rogue. Can you handle this?"--

\--"That's not important. He is. Tell me what to do."--

* * *

It wasn't public yet, and that was what she counted on.

Cities were dazzling things under a winter's moon, and Marie opened her second pack of cigarettes when she drove three hours later into Baltimore, the distinctive white streak covered with store-bought dye she'd applied on the road. She broke through the yellow tape surrounding the convenience store under the burned-out lights of the city streets and got only a glare from the homeless man shacked up on the floor by the door. A brief touch of her skin knocked him out and she reorganized the images he gave her and checked the name on the list she carried in her jeans pocket before carrying him out and pressing him into the alley two blocks away with a twenty in his pocket that he'd never remember getting.

She could still smell him here, deliciously familiar, addictive, see the stains of blood mixed brown with the dust of numerous feet. A rush of adrenaline that made her shiver a little, smiling as she ran a gloved hand across the floor and flaking brown clung to her fingers. Made her circuit of the store with a can of gasoline and a cigarette--sometimes she could believe she was less immortal than she was.

She made it look easy, though it wasn't at all, there was a science she'd learned in the labs of the school, and she finished dumping the gasoline in a sloppy line that hid the tiny bomb she'd assembled the week before in shop class for her final. Setting the trigger, she walked away and got in her car, wiping the smell of the place from her skin before stripping off the latex gloves and coiling them in the bag beside the box she'd taken from the lab.

She hit the trigger thirteen miles away and felt the explosion impossibly in the soles of her feet.

* * *

 __

\--"This isn't who we are, Rogue."--

\--"Give me a name."--

\--"There has to be another way."--

\--"Just a name. I'll take care of it."--

* * *

The second was the easiest. It smelled like ancient lead paint and the odors of rancid meat, which wasn't much of a surprise, and a brush of her fingers across the wall brought green-blue flakes raining down across her arm. Three flights of stairs that desperately needed repairs and creaked under every step of her foot, and she came to the fifth door on the left that looked like a good wind would knock it down.

But all she needed really was the key she'd taken from the manager's office, so she used that instead, walking into the stinking apartment, pulling on a fresh pair of latex gloves and pinning them over her sleeves.

She straddled the body of the thirty-year-old man in his bed and asked questions he probably didn't have the answers to, and that was a shame. She lowered her mouth to his and he tasted of tobacco and lust and hatred, and after she was done she tucked fifty dollars into his jeans and left the gasoline-stained gloves tucked around his hands and the can in the corner.

From a payphone outside, she called the police and told them where to find the arsonist.

* * *

 __

\--"I don't want it this way, Rogue, but we don't have a choice."--

\--"He's not responsible."--

\--"Rogue--"--

\--"I'll take care of it, Chuck. Doncha worry 'bout a thing."--

* * *

She changed cars at the third address and dropped the cash on the desk in the dim lights, and he handed her the keys without comment. Her hat hid her face and she pulled her jacket closer when she walked outside, knowing her lone figure wasn't unusual enough to attract attention. When she got in, she drove to the last address and a handful of twenties got her the room number and key.

He could get awards for predictability.

The woman alone on the bed was rocking slowly back and forth, blonde hair a curtain over her face and gloved hands wrapped around her knees as if trying to draw so far in herself she'd never come out. There was still that piece of paper trapped in her trembling hand--probably fished from his jacket, thrown over the edge of the bed. Blank green eyes came up and Marie saw the imprint of an old bruise at the corner of her mouth and shook her head. Distantly, she could hear the shower and saw the steam crawling out from under the door.

"What triggered it? You know?"

The woman shook her head frantically and was reaching for her clothes. Marie threw a wad of bills on the bedspread.

"Get out."

The bathroom door wasn't locked and Marie let herself in, dropping to her knees beside him, sitting unmoving on the toilet, running a hand over his denim-covered leg. He didn't respond, and she traced up to his face, feeling him slowly lean into the touch. Even through her glove, his skin was damp--shock, she was used to it.

"I'm here, sugar, everything's gonna be fine. Come on, you're gonna get sick or somethin'."

She couldn't be sure he even recognized her, but that didn't matter anyway, so she stood up, pulling him to his feet, turning off the shower quickly before lead him back into the bedroom, mercifully silent, even if a cloud of cheap perfume seemed to linger. Pushing him down on the bed, she took off her jacket and lowered herself down beside him.

"Logan?"

His eyes were closed and she lowered her head, brushing a kiss across his mouth, pulling away at the images, a shock to her mind and felt his hand close over her wrist before she could breathe--then a sudden jerk and her back was to him, his hand around her throat, over her turtleneck sweater, an arm around her waist, pinning one arm to her side.

"Logan," she whispered. Keeping her free hand down, closing her eyes, tightening her control until she could be sure that if he accidentally brushed her skin, nothing would happen. A long moment where sparks danced in front of her eyes and then he slowly loosened his grip. A breath against her hair, then the scrape of rough skin against her cheek, behind her ear, remembering her scent. "That's it, sugar. It's Marie. I'm here." Carefully, she reached up with one hand and pulled her glove off with her teeth, closing it over the hand on her neck, softly loosening the fingers. "It's me, baby. I'm here."

"Marie."

She breathed out as his hand slid to her shoulder.

"Everything's okay. I took care of it." She shut her eyes when his hand slid up her waist, over her breast, then down to her hip. "I'm here." Covered his hand with hers, sliding it back up to her breast, feeling her body tighten at the touch. Lacing her fingers through his, she gently pulled him away. "Not here, sugar. We gotta run."

Nothing but breath against her hair, and she slowly turned, looking into his eyes for a moment. ''Just stay here. I got it, sugar. Everything's gonna be fine."

She knew where everything was and found his clothes and left him to sit quietly on a chair while she searched the bathroom, latex gloves snapped over both hands while she searched for any trace--there was nothing she needed to worry about too much, he'd never miss the blood-stained shirt and jeans, she had replacements in the car. Going through the room, she stripped the bed and packed the sheets in a plastic bag in the trunk before going back in and leading him out. Another wad of bills left in the middle of the mattress, just in case.

When she slid into the driver's seat, his hand closed over her thigh briefly and she breathed out sharply.

"Not here." She threw the keys on the doorstep and closed the car door. "Soon, sugar."

* * *

 __

\--"Why are you doing this?"--

\--"Sometimes you ask stupid questions, Bobby boy. Why does anyone do anything?"--

\--"You're telling me this is for love?"--

\--"Everything ends up being for love, sugar. Sometimes we just fool ourselves into believing it's for more."--

* * *

It was just as nondescript, but the manager nodded in short recognition when she handed over cash and ducked back out, wrapping her jacket around her. Sliding inside, she pulled him behind her and locked the door, wrapping her body all around him and sliding her mouth open under his when he picked her up from the floor. He turned her around, running curious hands down her back and over her jeans, reaching around her waist to unbutton them and press them down, crouching as they slid down her calves. Tilting her head back, she breathed out with the chill air against her body and the warm touch of his mouth over the back of her knees when he lifted each foot from her clothes. Then a brush over her underwear and they fell to the floor with the sharp sound of unsheathed metal.

"All yours," she whispered, and a hand at her waist pressed her down. She pulled her turtleneck over her head and felt teeth sink into the side of her throat. "Yes, sugar. Just like that." He pressed against her, growling softly, and she moaned when a hand slid up to cup her breast. "Like you want, like you like it, Logan." She clenched her teeth at the first rough thrust, feeling the warm lips on the back of her neck, the hands on her hips steadying her as a wave of pure lust went through her, taking her breath completely and she buried her face in the mattress, nails digging into the edge, until he pulled out, turning her so fast she barely registered what he was doing until she was on her back on the bed, sliding her nails down his back and whimpering with the force of the next thrust she could feel all the way up her body.

She locked her eyes on his face--the one time, the only time, he was completely hers, completely Marie's, the one he wanted, the one he needed, and she ran her fingers through his hair and he kissed her, taking her mouth with the same strength he did her body. She wanted it rough, wanted the bruises to prove to herself that this happened, so she could run her fingers over them in the shower and believe, that at least for those few hours he'd never remember, he knew she was his, as she'd known since that truck so long ago that God, she shouldn't remember every smell and every sound and every confused feeling that had coalesced into something achievable when the first call came, when she took it herself and found out what true love meant.

Locking both legs around him, she caught a breath when she met his eyes--nothing quite human looked out right now. It never did.

* * *

 __

\--"Why? Can you tell me that?"--

\--"Ask me somethin' easy, sugar. Ask me why I'm still alive. Then you'll know everythin' you need to know about me."--

\--"Gratitude isn't love, Rogue."--

\--"Who said anything 'bout being grateful?"--

* * *

She came with a scream, her entire body shuddering, sinking her teeth into flesh that would heal almost immediately, and shivered when she felt him come too, with a low growl that was as much possession as pleasure. Dark eyes closed and Marie waited, patient, taking in the moment that meant everything to her, shudders still running up and down her body, holding him until she knew he was asleep, then rolling him gently beside her and running her fingers over his skin.

Not a mark on him.

She got up after a few more minutes of luxurious touching, feeling, being perfectly happy with the world--beginning the final stage of her mission. Took a long shower, fingers lingering over the imprint of teeth on her shoulder, and she could almost be angry she had to wash the scent of him off her skin. Outside the motel she set the fire that burned the bloody clothes, dropping the used gloves in as well. In the manager's office, she got the phone and made the call to the Mansion.

"Rogue?"

"Everything's fine. Tonight."

Then she hung up and went back to the room, knowing he'd still be asleep, and began the clean-up, brushing a bare hand over his shoulder and getting everything she could, knowing he was knocked out completely after that. Processed the images, sitting on the floor and rocking through his rage and shame and hate that tried to claw itself out of her skin.

The bruises on her skin healed and she hated that.

When she was done, the motel sheets were changed and not a trace of her remained on his skin. God, she hated that too. Then packed everything up and sat down on a chair with a cigarette and a magazine grabbed from the office to wait, her hair pulled up in a loose ponytail and a turtleneck and sweater covering her skin. Black leather gloves covered her hands, to hide the broken nails and cover the stains from oil.

* * *

 __

\--"Is it worth it?"--

\--"Tell me you wouldn't do the same, if you had the chance. Tell me you never have."--

\--"It doesn't make it right."--

\--"Don't bother justifying. It just is, sugar."--

* * *

"Marie? What the fuck are you doin' here?"

She grinned at him briefly and put down the magazine, folding in the page so she could read the article later.

"You called."

He frowned, then pushed the blankets back unself-consciously--she'd dressed him with care, but was always unsure how much he'd remember. A hand went to his head and he growled something in a language she didn't know, and wondered if he realized what he was saying.

"Don't remember."

"You never do. Better accommodations than usual," she snickered, and he threw a pillow at her.

"Fuck, my head hurts. How long?"

The answer was on the tip of her tongue, ready and waiting.

"Two days, sugar, out like a light." She kicked her feet off the desk and stood up. "Come on--Jeanie will wanna check you out, make sure everything's okay up there. You feel up to a nice drive?"

He cocked his head at her briefly, and sometimes, she saw something in them, something that stopped her heart and scared her worse than anything else ever could--that one day, he'd wake up and remember. Just a little. But that'd be enough, and she had enough of him in her to know what he would do if he ever found out, if he ever _*knew*_.

But the look faded, dismissed as imagination, and she bounced up, the kid he wanted her to be, bright and happy and laughing as she fished out her car keys from her jacket pocket.

"Come on. Let's go."

"Yeah." Softly. "Let's go."

* * *

 __

\--"Rogue is all in our imagination, isn't she?"--

\--"She's real enough, Professor. Marie just has first claim, y'know."--

\--"Rogue is one of us."--

\--"Yeah, well, Marie says the X-Men can take a flying jump with their ideals. It'll be okay. She only comes when she's called."--

* * *

Some people said they did it for money, for power, or for themselves. For ideals or for survival or for faith. She'd distilled it down to one concept, one meaning, that she took as her own with the name she'd given herself.

They did it for love.

So did Marie.


End file.
